the trick to breaking porcelain is harder than it sounds

Iíve never been one to wear my soul on sleeve  
my face like a doll of porcelain  
even when I cry  
And I canít make it stop
I canít lift the fake from this smile  
though if you stare through my shades
or camera click just the right moment  
there might be some indication  
that these demons still haunt me  
Iím mannequin composure
with cracks in my eyes  
and the sweetest voice that rings
of I-want-to-be-bad pretentiousness
despite the historical artefacts
that refute the claims
that I was ever a good girl  
Thereís money in my underwear
and a knife in my knee high boots  
a joint in my bra  
and someone sleeping under my bedroom  
The cops were here, today  
years ago  
throw a pillow over the bong on the couch  
someone was screaming domestic violence  
Two minute noodles  
and a cockroach clock  
anything is high class living  
when the streets have a corner  
waiting for my name  
to imprint itself upon the pavement  
and beneath the bushes  
a victim of circumstance  
a lover of hell  
I was always just a drama queen  
until I the day I screamed suicide so loudly  
the cops got called
There was a bridge with my name on it  
I didnít jump
but I did get a free ride to the psych ward  
which didnít have a bed  
for someone with my silent sobbing composure  
Iíve never been one to wear my soul on sleeve  
my face like a doll of porcelain  
even when I cry  
And I wonder why  
no one ever believes me  
when I scream that Iím hurting
© Indie Adams 2012
Written by Indie (Miss Indie)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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